CREEK ROAD GANG
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Therapy in Everyday Life
Mary Porthcopyright 2010
My autobiographical writing class was back in session and I sat down to write. I had a picture floating around in my head that involved my youngest son, my husband and me. The story behind the picture had some drama, some tension, a sweet moment of enlightenment and a sublime resolution. I began, “The morning sun pushed its way through the openings in the blinds as she felt herself coming to wakefulness…”
Darn, there “she” was again, she being me. I had really confused the class last semester in a heartfelt essay about my daughter and me that I wrote in third person. They had asked me about it. “Why not write it in first person? It gets confusing knowing if “she” and “her” are referring to you or your daughter.”
“It just came out that way.” I shrugged.
Kate, a wise and experienced member of the class gently suggested, “It seems like you’re trying to put some emotional distance between you and the story. I wonder what it would be like if, as an exercise, you went back and re-did it in first person?”
“Hmmm…I’ll think about it,” I lied.
Later in the semester I was inspired to write a poem about my niece, Maria, an eight-year-old bundle of love and energy and high spirits who had had a difficult start in life as an orphan in Guatemala. The instructor read the poem.
“So, is that you?” a classmate asked in confusion.
“Oh no, that’s my niece,” I answered.
I looked at my poem again, as if for the first time. Had I really written it in first person? Empathy was one thing but my classmates were going to think I had some sort of personality disorder.
And now “she” had reappeared in my latest piece. What did it say about me? I was no expert but I’d read enough pop psychology books to suspect it must mean something. The same way I was sure my first grader’s pictures could be horribly misinterpreted. Conor was one of the most joyful loving children you could ever meet, but he insisted on drawing his stick figure people without faces. I queried him on it one day as we were finishing up his homework.
“It takes too much time, Mom,” he replied as he wiped off a chocolate milk mustache with his school tie.
“Oh come on,” I coaxed. “This guy would look so cool with some eyes and a funny mouth, don’t you think?”
“I like it that way. Can I go ride my bike?”
I asked a counselor friend about my son’s faceless drawings when I bumped into him the next week.
“No, it doesn’t mean anything,” he smiled reassuringly. “He told you why he does it.”
“But seriously, doesn’t it mean something if I were to look it up in a textbook?” I pressed.
“Well, it could in some circumstances. Other missing body parts could signify more. But Conor’s fine. You know that and I know that.”
Yes, I knew my son was fine but a paranoid voice deep within was sure my counselor friend was keeping something from me.
So what was I to do with this emerging story? I tried it again without hiding behind the anonymity of an objective narrator. I could feel my muscles tense up and my stomach begin to churn. It was a personal story. My husband and I had had a disagreement a few months back. We rarely got upset with each other. We had a fulfilling, loving, and respectful relationship. We enjoyed each other’s company, shared the same dreams for our home and family life, and knew and accepted our strengths (mostly his) and weaknesses (mostly mine). (Note to self: edit that last part or the class will add self-esteem issues to my other psychological problems.)
Anyway, we had spent a few days uncharacteristically distant. The morning where my story was going to start I was waking up feeling like I was on a deserted island even though my husband was lying less than a foot away from me. Conor had come into the room and was about to climb into bed between us, as he often did on the weekend, to start the day with a leisurely chat that might include details of the prior day’s adventures or plans for his birthday party still half a year away. He usually climbed in to the warm rumple of bedclothes with a reference to us being a sandwich and we’d give him a little squeeze in answer. But this particular morning he stopped, came around to the far side of the bed, and said to his dad, “You be the cheese.”
As my husband moved closer to me to make room for our son I felt myself react strongly to his light touch. My defenses melted rapidly and I was suddenly relaxed and relieved in his arms. There was no need for words or explanations, everything was back in order. Old hurts were forgiven. My shaken world was back in orbit. After a few minutes, Conor’s conversation veered toward his astonishing hunger and it was time to fix breakfast and start the day.
That was a nice story. Why couldn’t I tell it as me? It’s true I usually presented a slightly more polished image to the world. But were vulnerability and old pajamas such a bad thing? Certainly we were neither the first nor the last married couple to have a disagreement. And disagreements weren’t a problem with us at any rate. Hadn’t I worked through my abandonment issues and childhood insecurities enough to accept and embrace my honest emotions?
I imagined myself back in the moment, waking up in bed remembering the emotional hurt through the prompt of the actual physical pain it wrapped around my shoulders like a too heavy cloak. I remembered the aching throat and clouded drooping eyes, the heaviness that weighed inside my chest like some foreign object. I shook my head returning to the present. Outside a late winter sun sparkled on the remaining snowdrifts, as just below the ground crocuses threatened to burst forth. I turned off the computer. It was too nice a day. “Her” story would have to wait.
Darn, there “she” was again, she being me. I had really confused the class last semester in a heartfelt essay about my daughter and me that I wrote in third person. They had asked me about it. “Why not write it in first person? It gets confusing knowing if “she” and “her” are referring to you or your daughter.”
“It just came out that way.” I shrugged.
Kate, a wise and experienced member of the class gently suggested, “It seems like you’re trying to put some emotional distance between you and the story. I wonder what it would be like if, as an exercise, you went back and re-did it in first person?”
“Hmmm…I’ll think about it,” I lied.
Later in the semester I was inspired to write a poem about my niece, Maria, an eight-year-old bundle of love and energy and high spirits who had had a difficult start in life as an orphan in Guatemala. The instructor read the poem.
“So, is that you?” a classmate asked in confusion.
“Oh no, that’s my niece,” I answered.
I looked at my poem again, as if for the first time. Had I really written it in first person? Empathy was one thing but my classmates were going to think I had some sort of personality disorder.
And now “she” had reappeared in my latest piece. What did it say about me? I was no expert but I’d read enough pop psychology books to suspect it must mean something. The same way I was sure my first grader’s pictures could be horribly misinterpreted. Conor was one of the most joyful loving children you could ever meet, but he insisted on drawing his stick figure people without faces. I queried him on it one day as we were finishing up his homework.
“It takes too much time, Mom,” he replied as he wiped off a chocolate milk mustache with his school tie.
“Oh come on,” I coaxed. “This guy would look so cool with some eyes and a funny mouth, don’t you think?”
“I like it that way. Can I go ride my bike?”
I asked a counselor friend about my son’s faceless drawings when I bumped into him the next week.
“No, it doesn’t mean anything,” he smiled reassuringly. “He told you why he does it.”
“But seriously, doesn’t it mean something if I were to look it up in a textbook?” I pressed.
“Well, it could in some circumstances. Other missing body parts could signify more. But Conor’s fine. You know that and I know that.”
Yes, I knew my son was fine but a paranoid voice deep within was sure my counselor friend was keeping something from me.
So what was I to do with this emerging story? I tried it again without hiding behind the anonymity of an objective narrator. I could feel my muscles tense up and my stomach begin to churn. It was a personal story. My husband and I had had a disagreement a few months back. We rarely got upset with each other. We had a fulfilling, loving, and respectful relationship. We enjoyed each other’s company, shared the same dreams for our home and family life, and knew and accepted our strengths (mostly his) and weaknesses (mostly mine). (Note to self: edit that last part or the class will add self-esteem issues to my other psychological problems.)
Anyway, we had spent a few days uncharacteristically distant. The morning where my story was going to start I was waking up feeling like I was on a deserted island even though my husband was lying less than a foot away from me. Conor had come into the room and was about to climb into bed between us, as he often did on the weekend, to start the day with a leisurely chat that might include details of the prior day’s adventures or plans for his birthday party still half a year away. He usually climbed in to the warm rumple of bedclothes with a reference to us being a sandwich and we’d give him a little squeeze in answer. But this particular morning he stopped, came around to the far side of the bed, and said to his dad, “You be the cheese.”
As my husband moved closer to me to make room for our son I felt myself react strongly to his light touch. My defenses melted rapidly and I was suddenly relaxed and relieved in his arms. There was no need for words or explanations, everything was back in order. Old hurts were forgiven. My shaken world was back in orbit. After a few minutes, Conor’s conversation veered toward his astonishing hunger and it was time to fix breakfast and start the day.
That was a nice story. Why couldn’t I tell it as me? It’s true I usually presented a slightly more polished image to the world. But were vulnerability and old pajamas such a bad thing? Certainly we were neither the first nor the last married couple to have a disagreement. And disagreements weren’t a problem with us at any rate. Hadn’t I worked through my abandonment issues and childhood insecurities enough to accept and embrace my honest emotions?
I imagined myself back in the moment, waking up in bed remembering the emotional hurt through the prompt of the actual physical pain it wrapped around my shoulders like a too heavy cloak. I remembered the aching throat and clouded drooping eyes, the heaviness that weighed inside my chest like some foreign object. I shook my head returning to the present. Outside a late winter sun sparkled on the remaining snowdrifts, as just below the ground crocuses threatened to burst forth. I turned off the computer. It was too nice a day. “Her” story would have to wait.
* * *
Biographical Note: Mary Porth is a writer who resides in suburban Philadelphia with her husband and five children. She claims as her personal mantra the words of poet Nan Merrill who says, “Keep your heart open and free, make time to dwell in silence, become a peaceful presence in the world.” Although she reached the half century mark in the summer of 2009, she’s still unsure what to be when she grows up. Some of Mary's poetry appeared in our September 2009 issue. Her story "Wednesdays at the Clinic" was featured in the October 2009 issue, and "Ho, Ho, Whoa!" appeared in our December 2009 issue.
